


Something to Hold

by Brokenpitchpipe



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Autumn, Canon-Typical Suicide Mentions, Hidden Feelings, I imagined the reader as male when writing this but they can be interpreted in any way, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, Spoilers for Shane's route, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenpitchpipe/pseuds/Brokenpitchpipe
Summary: You set your gold on the counter, avoiding Pierre's eyes.Pierre shrugs. “Fair enough,” he sighs. “Just throw it on the pile of secrets buried under this town.” He takes the money and wraps the end of the bouquet in a plastic bag.
Relationships: Shane (Stardew Valley)/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 135





	Something to Hold

**Author's Note:**

> “The world is pressed against your fingers, and you're still looking for something to hold.”  
> ― Nitya Prakash

You hand Pierre your money and he disappears under the counter. 

“You know,” he says, “before you came along, I never made good money off seeds.”

“Hm,” you say, looking absently at the back wall. There’s a calendar, a few photos of his family, and a poster advertising the seasonal seed stock. It looks shinier than it did last year. Pierre must have laminated it. 

You hear a _thump,_ and Pierre’s muffled swear. “Sorry,” he says a moment later. “The sunflower seeds are way in the back.”

You don’t bother reassuring him, he won’t listen anyway. Instead you read the seasonal sign for the dozenth time, ticking off in your head which crops you’re going to plant today, and which you’ll leave off for another few weeks. Last year you’d forgotten to buy pumpkin seeds until the season was half-over, and this year you’re going to get two rotations in if it’s the last thing you do. 

Something purple catches your eye, and you tear your eyes off the sign. 

A bouquet of flowers rests on the counter, on the empty space where you remember seeing a worn backpack sitting years ago. Even in the shade it’s gorgeous, with purple, orange, and blue blooms tied together, lush green foliage carefully tucked around them. You lean over and smell the bouquet. The blooms smell sweet.

Pierre stands up, dusts his shoulders off, and sets a box of sunflower seed packets on the counter. “There we go,” he says. “So, is that everything?” 

“Is this for sale?” You point at the bouquet. 

Instantly, Pierre’s all-business demeanor changes. He sets his elbows on the counter and raises an eyebrow at you, which is the first time you’ve ever seen him drop the salesman act while he’s behind the counter. “Got your eye on someone, do you?” he says shrewdly. 

You reach into your pocket and start counting out gold, not giving an answer. It can’t be that obvious, can it? Sure, you see him in the saloon a few times a week, and sure, you usually don’t talk to anyone else when you drop by, and all right, okay, you always show up with a bag of fresh peppers from the greenhouse because they’re his favorite. But _still._ It’s not like you’ve ever told anyone. 

You were just the one who banged on Harvey’s door at 10:47 on a rainy fall evening, carrying him in your arms like a swooning maiden, with his vomit on your collar and his head cradled in your hand. And for the last two years you’ve taken a jar of pickles to the clinic twice a week to say thank you.

They still talk about it sometimes, when they see him in the back of the saloon nursing a can. If they’d stop to look for more than a second they’d see the soda label, but most of them don’t. As far as you can tell, he’d only told Marnie and you about his new resolution. And you’re not one to spread rumors, true or not.

You set your gold on the counter, not looking Pierre in the eyes.

Pierre shrugs. “Fair enough,” he says, and sighs. “Just throw it on the pile of secrets buried under this town.” He takes your gold and wraps the end of the bouquet in a plastic bag, tying the end with a rubber band so it won’t leak. “It’ll last for a while, as long as you keep it watered,” he says. “Cut the stems every day, and change out the water when it gets dirty.” 

“Thank you,” you say, and carry the bouquet under your arm as you leave. 

* * *

A few days later you take one step out of the house into the sun and trip over the cat, catching yourself on the railing just in time to save yourself from falling down the stairs. 

“Shoo,” you mutter. The cat purrs against your ankle. You reach down and pet it, and it pushes its forehead against your palm.

You yawn as you open the mailbox. There’s a handful of letters inside. One is from Pierre, just a catalogue of the new seeds and goods they have in stock for the season. Another is from Mayor Lewis, reminding you about the upcoming annual fair. You roll your eyes as you fold it up again. This is your third year living in Pelican Town, you don’t exactly need reminding. 

The last letter is sealed with ornate wax, trapping a bird feather against the paper. You undo the seal, tuck the bird feather behind your ear, and pull out the letter. It smells like strawberries. 

_Hey, it’s Emily!_ it reads. _Haley said she saw you buying a bouquet at the store a few days ago! I just wanted to say good luck, and whoever it is will be super lucky._

A little doodle follows this, along with her messy signature. You fold the letter up again and chew your bottom lip. Maybe waltzing into Pierre’s and buying a bouquet at 2:00 in the afternoon wasn’t the best idea after all. Why hadn’t you gone in at 9:00 sharp? 

Well, who are you kidding, Pierre would have spread it eventually. That’s the problem with a town this small, word travels faster than light. 

The bouquet sits in your backpack all morning as you harvest your yams.

* * *

You take a break after emptying the barn. Fall is almost halfway over, and there’s a chill in the air that promises a timely winter. You try to remember where you left your collection of unfashionable yet practical hats. That beanie might look atrocious, but it does the job.

Jemima sniffs hungrily at the bouquet in your hands. “No,” you scold, “you have your own food. Go eat some grass, I planted it just for you.” 

Jemima sniffs at the flowers again. You hold them out of her reach. “Go on,” you tell her. She snorts and turns her pink tail in your face, then stalks back out into the middle of the pasture. 

You sit on a stump by the gate and watch your little family graze for a few minutes, rubbing your thumb over one of the biggest petals. They’re soft, like silk— and you know what silk feels like now. You used to spend hours in Emily’s sewing nook until one morning when you’d dropped a cherry bomb onto her machine. She’d just laughed, harder than when you’d called her by her sister’s name after a year of knowing them, and told you to keep the coat. 

You love fall, because you never take off your bomber jacket and it’s hands-down the best season to wear one. Spring and summer are too sunny, and it’s not quite warm enough for winter. But during the fall, it’s perfect.

And, logically, if you _were_ going to give him the bouquet, it should be around now. Mid-fall, after the aching summer heat is finally gone and before the season’s glow wears off and you’re wading through snow. You don’t think handing him a bouquet would be very classy if your teeth were chattering. 

It’s a pity you missed the Moonlight Jellies— though perhaps that would have been too public. It’s probably for the best. Maybe you should wait a bit longer. 

Clementine clucks disapprovingly. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” you ask her, frowning. “He still has things to deal with that don’t— involve me.” 

Clementine nibbles on some grass, watching you shrewdly. 

“I _know_ it’s been two years,” you mutter. She pecks the ground. You look at the flowers in your hand. Pierre had been right. Even after two days, they still look freshly picked, with vivid colors and a strong, sweet aroma. 

You let yourself imagine, just for a moment, that _he’s_ the one who gives them to you. 

You think about opening your front door to him on your porch, with his hands behind his back and his eyes on the floor like he does when he feels awkward about something— like he does when he talks about anything personal. Like he did when he came to your door the day after, and apologized, and thanked you, and told you he was going to change, and then he _did._

You let yourself imagine he pulls the flowers from behind him and holds them out. You think he’d probably blush, and he’d look somewhere else.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. 

Maybe he’d look you in the eye, and _you’d_ be the one trying not to look away. Maybe he’d look at you and tell you that a few years ago he’d brushed you off as a city-slicker trying out the country life for a lark, that he thought you’d be gone in two weeks. Maybe he’d say that he was jealous when he heard you used to work for Joja’s corporate but you’d quit because you’d inherited a farm with Grandpa’s money. And maybe he’d tell you he was angry at first, because that’s what he wanted more than anything, the money and the freedom to leave and start living life the way he wanted to, and you’d gotten that chance and he refused to believe you would deserve it. 

Or maybe that’s just what he’s admitted to you over the years, in bits and pieces, over cans of soda in the back of the saloon as you talked for collective hours under the bear statue by the fire. 

But still, you think, leaning down to smell the flowers again, it would be nice if he said it all in one piece, one big drawn-out monologue. And if you listened to it all, and took the flowers, and said yes— because of course you’d say yes— maybe then he’d even kiss you—

“Hey.” 

You fall off the log. Clementine squawks and leaps out of the way, getting a few good seconds of air. She lands three feet away, and so does the bouquet. When you scramble to your feet you can’t see it in the grass, and you hope he can’t either.

“Whoa,” he says. “You okay?” His hands are in his pockets. He isn’t leaning down to help you up like a white knight, he’s enjoying the show. It shows in his eyes, and in the way he barely hides a smirk. 

“Yeah,” you say, brushing dust off your arms. “You just caught me by surprise.” 

“I can see that,” he says, snorting. “What were you doing?” 

“Just—” You wave your arms vaguely. “Tending to the chickens.” 

He’s only come down to your farm a few times. Few people do, it’s a long trek from town. But Marnie’s is just a short walk down to the forest, so he didn’t go too far out of his way. Still, you wonder why he’s here. 

He’s only shown up a few times before, and only in the mornings, and only for a few minutes. Now, he looks around your farm.

“You got some weird chickens,” he says, looking at Clementine. 

Clementine clucks, red eyes flashing indignantly. You relate to her. Her jet black feathers make her overheat in the summer. Even throughout the other seasons, you usually find her in the coop when you go in to collect the eggs, basking in the shade. 

And then he looks at Frankie. 

Frankie chows down on a fistful of grass, swallows, and burps. A handful of flames drip from her mouth and land in the dirt. She looks at them, kicks them with clawed, leather-scaled feet, and walks on. 

“Uh,” he says. 

“She’s adopted,” you say. 

He snorts. “They’re all adopted.” 

“Why are you here?” 

The question takes him by surprise. You watch him fidget with his coat, tugging the zipper up and down. “I’ve only been here a few times,” he says, looking at the fence. It’s starting to go. Winter will be a season of infrastructure. “But I haven’t really seen the whole place yet.” 

You don’t buy it. He doesn’t give a whit about farming, not if the last three years have told you anything. He only has eyes for your animals. Even now, he’s watching Clementine graze through the grass. Your heart jumps as she walks past where you know the bouquet is hidden. She gives you a contemptuous look and then wanders on.

He smiles as he watches her, and for a while you just stare.

And then he turns to you again with renewed energy, sucks in a breath, and lets it out.

“I want a job,” he says quickly. It’s not like him to admit he _wants_ anything, let alone ask for it. And you can tell he’s asking for it, not just telling you. He’s out of his element and it shows. “Since Joja closed down last year, I’ve been working more at Marnie’s, but…” He scratches the back of his neck. “She doesn’t really need the help.” 

You blink. 

“But you’ve got a farm and a ranch,” he continues, voice evening out. He must have rehearsed this. “An extra pair of hands might be nice. I can keep your livestock fed and happy, so you have more time for the farm.” 

You have auto-feeders. You actually like ranching much more than farming. You have a dozen sprinklers and a hut full of little sprites that do most of the farming for you.

You don’t tell him any of this. 

“Okay,” you say instead, and that smile comes back. You remember, once upon a time, when you’d wondered whether he could smile at all. And you remember that first summer morning when you’d popped down to Marnie’s on a whim with a handful of peppers fresh from the garden, your newest achievement. And you’d seen him smile for the first time and you’d known, deep down, that he was going to mean something to you. 

He leaves, and you take out the auto-feeders, and then you pick up the bouquet and stare at it and think _what now?_

* * *

A week later the sky shakes with thunder in the middle of the night, and you dream, and then you wake up and you remember. 

It’s been two years almost to the day. It’s a strange anniversary, but you’ll never forget the day or the time. Fall storms always bring it back in vivid detail.

You knew what he wanted to hear, the words were right there. _The decision is your own. Just know that I’m here for you._

But something stopped you, because you were looking at his body lying by the edge of the cliff, you were watching him look over the edge with glazed eyes, and you knew that if you gave him the choice, he might take it. And you also knew that you’d never be able to live with yourself if he did, if you’d let him.

But this wasn’t about you, so you held your tongue and thought. 

“Jas needs you,” you said at last, because she mattered worlds more to him than you did. You hadn’t even known him for a year. She was his goddaughter. Of course she was more important. And you didn’t have the right to be mad about it. “You’re like a father to her.” 

A strangled sound came from his throat, and your heart jumped. Maybe it was cruel to guilt him like this, but if it saved his life you wouldn’t care. Your hands were shaking with nerves and wet with rainwater. You wouldn’t be able to pull him up alone, and you were very much alone. 

“You’re right,” he said, barely audible over the torrential downpour. “Jas… ugh.” He sniffed. “God. I’m a horrible—” His breath caught, and a little burp trickled out of his mouth. “—selfish person.” Another sniff. “Now I feel even worse.” 

Your stomach turned. You hated having to say it, you hated seeing him hate himself more for your words, but you knew there hadn’t been another option. If he felt weak for not being able to do it, you’d take that. Because it meant he _wouldn’t do it._

“I think,” he said, after the rain had soaked your jacket clean through. “I think you should take me to the hospital now.” 

And then his eyes closed, and your heart stopped. 

Even though he was a dead weight and the rainwater made everything slippery, you managed to get him in your arms. His head sank this way and that as you carried him, and after twelve steps you changed your grip, your palm on his neck, his nose turned against your chest. 

He looked so different like this. Every time you saw him around town, he was scowling over a can of beer, scowling as he walked to work, scowling as he walked to the saloon with his Joja hat stuffed in his back pocket. And now his face was slack, his eyes were closed, his lips barely parted. The smell of beer and vomit left his mouth every time he took a breath. 

You’ll never know how you made it all the way to Harvey’s, but you’ll never forget the moment when your fist had hit the door and met silence. You checked your watch. It was 10:47. Through the storm you read the sign posted by Harvey’s door— _open until 3:00 PM._ You’d never been to the hospital in Pelican Town before, how would you have known that it closed seven hours ago? 

But Harvey lived here, didn’t he? 

You pounded the door again. In your arms, his head lolled outward, mouth falling open. You were scared, you’d never seen anyone like this before. What if you were too late? What if it didn’t matter what you’d said, what if none of it mattered, what if it was over right now, right here—

Harvey opened the door in nothing but a dressing gown. He looked bewildered, and no doubt would have asked you if you knew what time it was if he hadn’t been distracted by the body in your arms. 

The weight was lifted at long last as Harvey hauled him inside, surprisingly strong, and before you knew it he was out of sight. 

All you could do now was wait. 

* * *

Jemima loves him. 

It’s only been a week since he started working for you, and you can already taste the difference. Clementine’s eggs are bigger, Sheldon’s milk is creamier, and even the mushrooms Jemima finds are thicker, tastier, and— most importantly— more valuable. Winter is around the corner; he couldn’t have had better timing. 

You find him by the booth tonight and buy a pizza to share. You give him his bag of peppers and he breaks them into pieces and drops them on his slice.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he says after his third. The bouquet in your backpack burns, but you keep your hands still. 

“Sure,” you say. 

“I was such an asshole a few years back.” He picks off a mushroom. “Why’d you start talking to me?”

You open your mouth and realize you don’t know. Or, you do know, but there are so many little bits and pieces that it’s not that simple. 

“Well,” you say, trying to remember the first time you’d seen him. It wasn’t long after you’d moved into town. You smile as you remember hiking into town for seeds only to find out that Pierre’s shops wouldn’t open for another two hours. You had nothing to do but wait around the courtyard, and he’d walked by. 

“I saw your jacket,” you say as you remember. “I realized you worked at Joja.”

His thumb pushes a dent into the can. 

“And I remembered when I worked for them too.” You stare at his hand as you say it. “And I never had a friend. Maybe if I had, I’d been able to make it. But I didn’t.”

You can feel him looking at you. You know if you meet his eyes you won’t be able to say the rest, so you keep your gaze on his thumb. A drip of condensation falls from the can and slides down his thumbnail. 

“I was lucky enough to have an out, and I took it,” you say. “But not everyone’s that lucky.” His thumb twitches. “You weren’t.” 

“Well,” he says, and you can’t help it, you look at him. He smiles, small and shy, and you want to die just a little. “I was pretty lucky. I met you, didn’t I?” 

Your chest clenches as hard as your fists and you feel so _much,_ God, you want to just kiss him, lean over the table and grab his jacket by the collar and kiss him— 

“It’s kinda funny,” he says, “I actually thought about that too.” 

You know, because he’s said it in so many words, but you let him say it again, you let him tell you how he wanted to drop everything but couldn’t, how he saw you and hated you for having everything he wanted, and how he told himself you didn’t deserve it, believed that with his whole heart until one night when you shared a drink on the pier in the forest, and he started to wonder.

He finishes his can and then his hands don’t have anything to do, so he stuffs them into his pockets again. 

“I’ve been keeping track too,” he says quietly, almost too quiet to hear over the jukebox. “It’s coming up.”

“Tomorrow,” you say, nodding. 

It’s sort of like a holiday now. For a minute you just look at the empty can on the table, dented in the middle. His fingerprints shine on the aluminium. 

Gus knows. When he’d come to serve the pizza, Gus clapped a hand on his shoulder, handed him a seltzer on the house, and told him congratulations. He’d looked away and muttered thanks, embarrassed but pleased. 

You think about the flowers in your backpack for exactly one second before you feel sick to your stomach.

And then he tells you about Clementine, and her favorite patch of grass, and how he’d made the mistake of stepping on it only once before learning his lesson, and then you’re laughing and the rest of the night slides into the same comfortable ease you remember.

“Want a ride home?” you say when Robin and Demitrius head out. That’s usually your cue. 

“No,” he says, “I’ll stay a while longer. Besides,” he adds, “I get burpy when I drink too much of this stuff.” He flicks the empty seltzer can. It skitters across the table and lands on your unfinished slice of pizza, speckling the grease with water. 

It’s lemon-lime today. 

“Okay,” you say, and you leave. 

And when you go to bed that night you realize you’re crying, and you don’t know why. 

* * *

You wake up the next morning and it’s still raining.

You sit on your bed and look at the bouquet and you know you can’t give it to him. 

He still sees his therapist in Zuzu city. For a year he went once a week, and now he goes once every three. Occasionally he’ll go in for an extra one, though that’s been happening less and less. 

Jas is eight now, and draws more of his attention every day. She’s taller and she’s starting to ask hard questions. She talks to you more now, especially when you bring her flowers, but you know how she sees you, and how she sees him, and you know who’s more important to her. 

And you know who’s more important to _him._

And you know you can’t come between them, not even unintentionally. 

You stare at the perfect petals and think _this was a bad idea_. He has his plate full. You should wait— at least until Jas is a bit older and doesn’t need him so constantly. 

You put the flowers on the kitchen table where they’ll catch the light once the storm passes. They’ll be easier to water like this, and much easier to cut without having to replace the plastic bag. You look at the vase and wonder how long they’ll last. 

Perhaps forever. 

* * *

He turns up at 9:00 sharp, like always, and sets to work in the barn. Hours later, you’ve finished harvesting the beets and the sunflowers, you’ve run to town and back for bok choy seeds— and fertilizer to help them fruit before the season ends, you’re so bad at planning— and when you finally plant them perfectly around your sprinklers, he’s still working. 

Once you’re inside, you set a few sunflowers aside for Haley and begin to wash the beets. After twenty minutes he knocks on your door. 

You open it, preparing to chastise him for assuming he had to knock, and then you can’t say anything at all. 

God, he looks so good. His hair is in his face, wet from rain, and his jacket is dark and damp and clinging to his chest. He gives that smile, that shy, sheepish smile that you once thought you’d never see, and shakes his hair out.

“Nasty out here,” he says, shivering. You check his hands. They’re steady. Yours aren’t. “Sorry I’m late,” he adds, clearing his throat. “The sheep needed shearing right when the goats decided to make milk. It was a big day.” 

You still don’t say anything. 

“Think I could dry off and get some coffee before I leave?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, that’s a tall order,” you say, and somehow your voice doesn’t crack. He laughs, and you let him inside.

He sits at the kitchen table and begins to peel his sodden jacket off. Your fireplace will dry it in no time, and you’re about to tell him when he stretches his arms over his head and groans. 

“Coffee?” he reminds you after what feels like a full minute. 

You sprint out of the house and catch your breath by the keg out back. You wish you hadn’t had the foresight to brew this overnight. Standing out here for two hours would be preferable. 

The cat nearly trips you as you head back to the house, because it somehow doesn’t mind the rain, but you make it back in one piece, keeping a hand over the top of the mug to shield it from the weather. 

When you open the door he’s staring at the vase. 

You close the door and set the coffee on the table. He jumps about a foot, tearing his eyes off the bouquet. He takes the coffee, thanks you, and sips it a few times, not bothering to ask why you’d had to go outside to fetch it. 

“So,” he says after a few minutes. He looks at the flowers. “So you do have these.” 

“Yes,” you say. 

“I heard you bought them a while ago,” he says carefully, reaching out to run a finger down the largest purple petal. You swallow. “You aren’t… going to give them to anyone?” 

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. Your fingers start to cramp, and you realize they’re clenched in twin fists at your sides. You take a silent breath and relax them. “I didn’t even know what they meant. I just thought they were pretty.”

He stares at the bouquet, his eyes soft and unfocused. And then he looks at you. And then he looks back at the bouquet. “Oh,” he says, his voice oddly pitched. His hand twitches, and the coffee mug topples on its side. Coffee spills over the teak, steam blossoming into the air.

You shout, grabbing a tea towel to mop it up, but it takes him a few seconds to react. He stands up, the chair scraping loudly as he shoves it back, and grabs his dripping coat. “I should go,” he says, voice still strange. And then he takes two steps and trips over his own feet. 

Your eyes widen, you drop the tea towel. “Are you _drunk?”_

He scrambles up, clearly panicked. “No,” he says, “no— no—” 

It’s not just anger that fills you from forehead to foot. It’s disappointment, too. “What the _hell.”_

“I’m not!” he insists, holding his hands up like that’s going to prove it. And it does, a little. You let him talk. “I promise I’m not, It’s just—” He breaks off. And he stares at the window. And then you realize he’s staring at the bouquet. 

“Just?” you prompt. 

He sighs. And he picks up the tea towel and begins mopping the table, not looking at you.

“I heard you bought those a while ago,” he says quietly. “And… I was kind of hoping…” He bites his lip. “That you’d gotten them for me.” 

He sets the mug upright and twists the tea towel over it. Ruined coffee splashes into the porcelain. He folds the tea towel and sets it beside the mug.

“But that’s not the case,” he says, words coming quick and panicked now. “And that’s fine.” He grabs his sodden coat. “And— I’m gonna go now, so— I’ll— see you tomorrow—” 

He’s quick, almost too quick. He makes it to the door before your tongue finally unsticks from the roof of your mouth and you grab his wrist and say, _“wait!”_

He stops at your touch. 

“You were right.” The words come before you can stop them. The part of you that’s told you to wait for the last two years shrivels up and dies. “They were for you.”

His lips part. 

“I didn’t want to overstep,” you explain, your fingertips pressing into his wrist. You can feel his pulse. “I know you need space, and I know you need time, and I’m so proud of how far you’ve come, and I—” 

And then you can’t say anything because he’s kissing you. 

His hand is on your cheek, wet from rain and spilled coffee, and his fingertips press the back of your neck and your knees go weak and useless, but it’s okay because his arm holds you upright, keeps you steady, and his mouth is still on yours and you can feel his lips smile against your own. 

And his cheeks are coarse and unshaven against yours, rubbing delightfully, you’re going to have two red patches on your face tomorrow and thank Yoba it’s only Spirit’s Eve and no one will see. 

And then you’re in your bedroom and he’s there too, and he slides the bomber jacket off of your shoulders and drops it on the ground and you realize he dropped his sodden jacket in the kitchen and you hadn’t noticed, of course you hadn’t noticed because he kissed you, and he’s kissing you again and you forget, you forget— 

His hands reach your chest when it’s finally bare, and you’ve thought of this a thousand times, thought of his hands on your skin, imagined your own hands as his, and now they’re there, he’s touching you and you can’t breathe. You try and your lungs shudder and he smiles— your eyes are closed but you know he does. No one has ever seen you like this— they’ve seen you before, but not like this, not with your eyes soft and unfocused and your chest fluttering— you’ve spent years now building fences and harvesting pumpkins and fighting monsters a hundred miles underground and your chest is _fluttering._

You wonder if anyone has seen him like this, either.

It doesn’t take long. Of course it doesn’t. He’s against you and it’s done, and so is he, and he has you in his arms when you fall, and you want to hold him in yours but you can’t do anything but breathe, and even that is almost too much. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again, and you think it’s going to be soft and gentle but it’s hard again, hard like the first time. He’s not holding back. He’s holding you. 

He holds you around the middle as you ride down to the forest at a quarter to midnight in the middle of a thunderstorm, because you’re not going to let him walk back alone. 

You drop him at Marnie’s and pat Tulio on the rump in thanks. 

“I’ll,” he says, fiddling with his hands before stuffing them back in his pockets beside the bouquet. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

“Yeah,” you say. 

He kisses you one more time, and this time it’s longer, and this time it’s different, and he tastes like seltzer and coffee and you love it, and there’s rain on the both of you and you wonder, not for the first time, how you can hold him, but you do, you do, you do.

**Author's Note:**

> (listen sometimes you just gotta write some slam poetry about your video game boyfriend, i dont tell you how to live your life, leave me alone,,,,)


End file.
